


Rather Be A Street-Rat

by rustic_space_fiddle



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: 1992sies Les, Big Brothers, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Fist Fights, Horse Racing, Les Jacobs deserves the world, Little Brothers, Runaway, School, big brother racetrack, he is peak Les, in which they go to brooklyn, just to be clear, mix of 92sies and NEWsies, take care of Les
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26313343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustic_space_fiddle/pseuds/rustic_space_fiddle
Summary: Les Jacobs is going back to school again, and despite encouragement from Davey and his mother, he just isn’t doing well. After getting into a fight at school, he runs away and bumps into Racetrack, who takes him on a classic Higgins adventure.
Relationships: David Jacobs & Les Jacobs, Racetrack Higgins & Les Jacobs
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Rather Be A Street-Rat

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago, but never posted it. It’s one of my favorites though!

**Les Jacobs lay quietly in the bed he shared with his older brother, David.** He had been awake for about a half hour, listening to his mother stoke the fire and his father pack his work bag. It was Monday again. The first of yet another very long week of school days. Les dreaded school.

Footsteps approached; Les shut his eyes. Mrs. Jacobs entered the room and gently shook him and Davey.

“Wake up, boys,” she whispered loudly. “Time to get ready for school.”

Davey groaned an sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. For a moment, Les didn’t move, wishing that he was glued to the bed or that he was sick. He could pretend to be sick. He was good at that. But Davey would see right through it. He sighed, defeated, sitting up and sliding out of bed, his brother crawling after him. They dressed, grabbing their shoes and caps. Les took his time, not bothering to button all the buttons on his shirt or fasten his vest.

“C’mon, Les. We’ll be late,” Davey chided. He didn’t care for school either, as he had passed the “what every person needs to know” phase and gone into the “this is for people who want to go to university” phase, and he found it dull. However, his sense of duty to his parents drove him to do well and be on time, despite his dislike. Les did not have that drive. He glared at Davey and begrudgingly tied his shoes.

Mrs. Jacobs served them oatmeal, which Davey neatly wolfed down. His little brother, on the other hand, had no appetite. His mother noticed him fiddling with food.

“Les, eat your breakfast,” she said, as she prepared their lunches.

“I’m not really hungry,” Les muttered. Davey gave him a look.

“How do you mean?” Mrs. Jacobs asked, wiping her hands on a towel. “Are you sick?”

“No. I’m just not hungry.” No point in lying.

“Well, you can take it with you,” she decided, taking his bowl from him and covering it. “But you know we can’t waste food.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled.

Davey finished his breakfast and rinsed his dishes. Les stood up quietly and followed him to get their books, grabbing his trusty wooden sword from the floor near the door.

“Do you have your slates?” Mrs. Jacobs pressed.

“Yes, Mama,” Davey said, handing Les his stack of books.

“Chalk?”

“Yes, Mama,” Davey assured, sounding slightly exasperated. “We do this every day.”

“One day I won’t check, and you’ll miss something,” she joked pointedly. Davey sighed, but smiled all the same. Les stayed silent. Mrs. Jacobs gazed at him with motherly concern as he joylessly gathered his things.

Gently, Mrs. Jacobs grasped her little boy’s shoulders and knelt to his level. She brushed his chin with her finger. “Perk up,” she said encouragingly, buttoning his shirt up and fastening his vest. “You’ll be okay.”

He didn’t think he would be. He’d try to be okay, but it would end up just like the previous three weeks. Stowing these thoughts away, he looked at her and nodded, giving her the smile she wanted to see. It felt tight and forced. She rubbed his cheek lovingly with her thumb, then kissed his forehead.

“Go on, now,” she said, standing up. She handed Davey the lunch pail and gave him a hug. “I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, Mama!” Davey said. Les didn’t say anything.

Older took younger’s hand, and they left, their mother shutting the door behind them.

* * *

Three oddly silent miles later, the two brothers arrived at the schoolhouse. It was building with white wooden slats, clearly old and worn away. A bright red door greeted them, with friendly sign that said, “McKlaskys’s Schoolhouse”. To Les, the door was like the gate to Hell itself.

They arrived just as the bell began to ring, and the many children playing hoops and hopscotch scrambled for the school. Les held tightly to Davey’s hand as they followed the rest of the children up the steps and through the bright red door.

It smelled of shoes and paper and chalk dust. Rows of orange wooden desks seemed to loom ahead of him as Les clung to his brother. The teacher — a tall, bespectacled man with a rodent-like, pink face and thin, greasy blond hair — rapped a ruler on the desk, calling for them to get to their seats.

“It’ll be alright,” Davey whispered into Les’s ear. “Go on.”

Reluctantly, Les walked up to the second row of desks. As he slid into his seat, his feet dangling above the dirty wooden floor, he heard a snicker behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. It was the same boy, every day without fail. Dick O’Conner never failed to remind Les that the latter was behind a year. Or that Les was short for Leslie.

Of all the names for his parents to pick.

Les sunk down in his oversized seat and seethed quietly, trying to block out the whispers behind him as the teacher wrote the date on the chalkboard. He already knew today was going to be a mess.

He was right. The teacher gave out pop quizzes on mathematics, which Les was sure he had flunked. The math problems they had to practice had fried his brain completely. When they were asked to read words off the board, he had mispronounced his. The snorts from behind and the look from the teacher were enough to make his ears burn.

When the recess bell finally rang, Les bolted for the door, breathing in the smelly Manhattan air as though it were the clean breeze of a fresh meadow. He detached himself from the rest of the shouting, bickering kids, finding a lamppost and batting at it with his sword. He wished that he could play with Marty, a gingerbread boy of a newsie he had made good friends with during the strike days. They had always had good pirate games. Les frowned, getting bored with fighting an inanimate object, and having a good deal of pent up energy to spend, reverted to running in circles around the lamppost, dragging his fingers over it’s surface as he went.

“Hey, Les-Than-Nothin’,” a voice jeered.

Les stumbled out of his run, coming to a drunken stop. He shook his head, trying to get the world to sit still. He could see Dick standing in front of him with three of his minions. They laughed at him as he swayed dizzily. He glared, grabbing the lamppost to steady himself.

“Whadda you want?” he demanded.

“Just wanted to check up on the homeless boy,” Dick said, his voice dripping with mock concern.

“I’m not homeless,” Les said tersely, pulling his hand away from the lamppost and standing up straight. _What was wrong with being homeless, anyway?_

“Really?” Dick waved a hand in front of his nose. “‘Cause you smell like one.”

“Get lost, Dick,” Les growled, walking past them.

One of the other boys snatched his hat from his head as he passed. “Where do you think you’re goin’, ya muddy street rat?”

Les turned around, grabbing for his stolen cap. “Give it back, Ronnie.”

Ronnie easily evaded Les and tossed it to Dick, who waved it tauntingly. “C’mon, rat. _Newsie_. Come and get it.”

“Newsies aren’t rats,” Les ground out.

“They stupid, aren’t they? They sleep in gutter’s, don’t they?” Dick asked accusingly. “Is that where you live now? Huh, street rat? The gutters? With your fellow rats?”

Les was livid. His ears burned with fury, and his little fists were clenched so tight his fingernails made indents in his palms. The newsies had fought hard for the rights of all the kids in New York, and now this brat was calling them stupid rats.

“Newsies. Are not. _Rats_.”

Dick walked up to Les, stopping an arms length away, daring the smaller boy to do something. “Says the _rat_.”

“The newsies are better people than you could ever be, Dick,” Les declared, stepping closer and jabbing the other boy in the chest with his finger.

“Oh, so now you wanna fight?”

Les said said nothing, his eyes sparking with barely restrained anger.

“Go on,” Dick prodded. “Hit me.”

Les hesitated. He knew Davey would tell him not to. Getting into fights wasn’t something Les usually did. In fact, the only fights he’d ever been in were during the strike.

“Come on,” Dick continued, puffing himself up to intimidate the smaller boy. “You gonna run off, Lessie, like a _stinking_ _rat_?”

Fine.

Les gathered all his strength, pulled his fist back, and socked him square in the jaw.

Unprepared for the sudden blow, Dick fell to the ground, clutching at his face. Immediately, two of the other boys lunged at Les, shouting. Les darted backward, holding his sword out in front of him. One boy grabbed the end of it and yanked it away, knocking Les off balance. As he tried to recover his footing, a fist flew and landed on his nose. He yelped, bringing his hands up, then yelped again as another set of knuckles landed on his eye. He was shoved backward and fell hard, cracking his head against the cobblestone street. Other kids heard the commotion and came running, calling for the teacher. Ronnie jumped on Les, straddling him and throwing punches at his face. Amid the torrent of blows, Les grabbed his opponent’s collar and yanked him off, kneeing him in the gut.

Dick, now having regained his feet, stomped over and furiously kicked out at Les, who retaliated by getting up and throwing himself at him. The two grappled, till a large hand grabbed them both by the shoulders and yanked them apart.

“Enough!” The teacher had arrived, along with several of the older kids, including Davey. Les could see him staring at him with shock. His face burned.

“What are you boys thinking?” demanded the teacher disgustedly. “Brawling like a couple of dogs!”

“He started it!” Dick said defensively. Les didn’t try to deny it.

“I don’t care who started it,” the teacher said finally. “I don’t want to see this sort of behavior from you boys ever again.”

The two rivals glared defiantly at each other, Les steadfastly ignoring his embarrassment.

“Apologize,” the teacher commanded. “And shake hands like men.”

Reluctantly, Les put out his hand, covered in dirt and scratches. Dick spat mockingly into his own hand, and shook, giving him a haughty look. Satisfied, the teacher turned and went back into the schoolhouse, shouting a reminder that they had ten minutes left to play. Les wiped the other boy’s saliva on his knickers, frowning at him disgust. Dick spun on his heel and walked away, his friends following. Ronnie carelessly tossed Les’s cap, which Dick had dropped, at it’s owner’s feet.

“See ya later, Les-Than-Nothin’.”

His nose stinging like fire and his head pulsing, Les quietly stooped and picked up his cap. Davey stepped up behind him. “What were you _thinking_?”

No response.

“Who started it?” Davey asked.

The younger Jacobs rubbed his bloody nose on his sleeve, not turning around. No point in lying. “Me.”

“Les…”

“He called me a muddy street rat… So I soaked him.”

Davey gently but forcefully turned him around. “You can’t just beat people up because they call you names.”

“He called ‘em rats,” Les mumbled.

“Called who rats?”

“The newsies. He called ‘em stupid rats.” He looked up at Davey, his eyes starting to smart. He was embarrassed that he’d gotten whipped; that he’d started a fight at all.

Davey sighed. “You gotta be the bigger person, okay? Just turn the other way.”

“I tried,” Les insisted. He knew this. His Papa had told him plenty of times.

“I believe you,” Davey said sincerely. “You just gotta try a little harder.” He gripped his little brother’s chin and looked him over, his brow furrowing with concern. “Oi, Mama is gonna have a fit. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Les said dispiritedly. Mama Jacobs would be furious about him starting a fight. Might even have Papa give him a whipping. “…I’m sorry...”

“Les–”

“But I’d do it again!” Les broke in angrily. “I’d fight him again in a minute, if I had to.” And he would. He was mad at himself for it, but he’d gladly punch Dick all over again, if it meant defending his brothers.

“You better not do it again, Les Jacobs,” Davey said threateningly. “You can’t just beat people up whenever they throw mean words at you. You have be more mature than that.”

Les said nothing. He understood, but he disagreed.

“Come on.” Davey said, sighed defeatedly. He started to guide his brother toward the schoolhouse. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“No,” Les pulled away. His eyes were burning, and his face hurt. His knuckles were bruised, and his hands filled with splinters from having his wooden sword yanked away. He didn’t want to go anywhere near that schoolhouse. Ever again. Near Dick, or Ronnie, or the others. Near the teacher. He just wanted to sit alone.

Davey didn’t try to force him to follow. You can’t always help them; sometimes kids just had to work things out themselves. He gave his shoulder a squeeze. “All right. I’ll see you at lunch then.”

Once again, Les said nothing. Listening to Davey’s footsteps die away, he wandered over to a stack of nearby crates and sat down behind it. Then he cried, softly, so no one would find him and laugh. His face and head and hands hurt, Davey was upset with him, and he just wanted to go home.

Not home. At home, there would be a whipping and a disappointed mother. No.

He wanted to go to Newsie Square. He wanted to see his friends, to carry the banner. He didn’t to bring home bad grades and fight stories; he wanted to bring home pennies, and a headline. Something good. 

Seconds passed, then minutes. Then end-of-recess bell rang, and he could hear the faint squabbling of children as they crammed back into the schoolhouse. Les got to his feet, wiping his eyes. He came from behind the crates and stared woefully at the ominous school. He’d have to go in with his bruising and bloody face, and red, puffy eyes, and walk all the way to the front of the room, where Dick could jeer at him behind his back.

His little jaw set.

No.

No, he wouldn’t.

He wasn’t going back.

If he had to choose between being a school boy like Dick or a being a street rat, he’d rather be a street rat. Any day of the week.

So, pulling his cap firmly on his head and grabbing his wooden sword as though he were donning armor, he turned and ran.

* * *

* * *

**It was two in the afternoon, and Racetrack Higgins was hungry.** He hadn’t had breakfast, and he’d been walking nonstop since seven in the morning. The sun was at it’s hottest point, and even with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows and his hat being doubled as a fan, he couldn’t get cool. He decided to stop at Tibby’s for a quick bite to eat and some free shade.

He whistled as he strode down the sidewalk toward the restaurant, cigar between his fingers and his paper bag over his shoulder. As he reached the door, he spotted a small figure weaving among the people, carrying a familiar little wooden sword. Race let go of the door handle and stepped out into the sidewalk, peering suspiciously in the direction of the figure.

“Les?”

Sure enough, it was Les Jacobs, walking alone in the middle of the day, staring at the ground as he went.

Race quickly made his way towards the boy, roughly shoving at least two rather offended gentlemen out of his way. “‘Scuse me, mista– Les. Les! What are you doin’ out here, kid?”

Startled, Les looked up.

“What in the world happened to you?” Race inquired incredulously.

Les’s swollen eye was now black, and he still had blood on his face, sleeves, and hands. Despite this, upon seeing the other newsboy, his face split into an elated grin.

“Racetrack!” He threw his arms around his waist and squeezed him hard.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up.” He pried the boy off, but he was pleased to see him. After giving him a grateful return squeeze, he put a hand on the top of Les’s head and tipped it back. “Whoo. Nice shina. What happened to ya face? Didja get in a fight?”

Les’s smile faded, and he dropped his gaze. “Yeah.”

“Hey, whatsa matta?” Race tucked a knuckle under his chin. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with gettin’ in a fight, so long as you soaked ‘em good.”

“Tell that to my papa,” Les said bitterly, and let go of Race, who was puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor. Les was always so bright and optimistic — sometimes annoyingly so. Who had screwed him up?

He changed the subject: “I ain’t seen _you_ in a while.” He glanced around. “Where’s Dave?” he asked, suddenly realizing that the older brother wasn’t there.

“School.”

 _Oh._ Race began putting two and two together. “Is dat where you’se supposed to be right now?”

Les looked at his feet and scowled. “I’m not goin’ back.”

“‘Course not,” Race assured, ruffling the smaller boys cap. He didn’t need an explanation. He’d been a shrimpy nine-year-old once; he’d had a little brother once, too. “C’mon, let’s clean ya face up.”

He led Les to a nearby horse trough and helped him wash off the dried blood of his face and hands, then rolled up Les’s sleeves to hide the stained places where he’d wiped his nose. He also pulled as many splinters out at he could, but some wouldn’t budge.

“Das as clean as you’se gonna get,” Race said, drying his hands off on his trousers. “Now how’s about I get us some food? You hungry?”

Les nodded eagerly. “Yeah!”

Race grinned at him and put an arm around his shoulder. “A’right.”

* * *

Minutes later, the two boys were sitting on opposite sides of a booth, eating half a knockwurst each. Race couldn’t afford two, so they had decided to split one and get two glasses of cold water. Both of them wolfed down the half-sausages in record time, having both missed their morning meals.

“So,” Race began through his last bite of sausage. “Whadaya doin’ down here in de middle of de day?”

Les made a face as he chewed. “I started a fight at school.”

“Okay. Fight. Gatha’d dat already. What’d you do it for?” Race wiped his mouth on a napkin.

“They were makin’ fun of newsies,” he mushed indignantly through his hotdog.

“So you soaked ‘em?”

“Mm hm.”

Race nodded, taking a swig of water. “Sounds like somet’in’ I would do.” He set his glass down. “If ya licked ‘em, how come you run off?”

Les swallowed the last of his knockwurst, looking downcast. “I hate school. They make fun of me ‘cause I’m behind a grade, and ‘cause I’m a newsie.”

Race leaned forward. “Whadaya mean by dat?” he asked belligerently.

“They call me _Les-Than-Nothin’_ and _muddy street rat_ ,” Les explained resentfully. “I’m stupid ‘cause I sold papes.”

“Well, dey’se da ones dat’s stupid!” retorted Race. “You ain’t stupid, Les. None of us is stupid. Well, maybe Corky. He has an excuse, d’ough. But you,” he reached across the table and jabbed Les’s chest with a spoon at each word, “Are. _Not_. Stupid. Dey dunno what dey’se talkin’ about.”

Les pushed his plate to the side, nesting his chin in his arms on the tabletop. “Davey said to just ignore ‘em.”

“Didja?”

“‘Course I did. But they wouldn’t stop.”

“Den I guess you did de only t’ing you could do.”

“Yeah…” The boy paused. Then he continued lividly: “I wasn’t that mad about them callin’ me names. But the newsies went to all that trouble to get kids rights and then they just…” Les trailed off. Race said nothing. It was silent for a moment, the scattered sound of silverware clinking and strange chatter the only noise. Then: “I don’t wanna go to school no more. I just wanna sell papes with you guys.”

“Hm.” Race leaned back, folding his hands thoughtfully. What would nine-year-old him have done in this situation? What would he have done if this was his own little brother, Nicky? Race knew that school sucked, and that people sucked. But he also knew that learning was important, and that it was an important opportunity that could pass just as soon as you could blink — he should know. To a little kid who got nothing but bruises and black eyes out of it, however…

Maybe there would be a day to explain the value of school to him, but Race decided that today was not that day. He sat up decisively.

“Well!” he declared with a final air. “If you wanna sell papes, den I guess de only t’ing to do is get you sellin’ papes.”

Les’s face brightened like a dawning sunrise. “You mean it?”

“Shore I do. You can help me sell de rest of mine.” Race gave the other a mischievous half-grin. “Maybe we’ll have some fun while we’re at it. Whadaya say, kid?”

The smaller newsboy beamed, his bruised eye squished shut. “Yeah!”

“Den it’s a deal. You help me sell, and we’ll split the profits 90/10.”

Les made a face. “30/70.”

“Can’t go that low.”

“20/80.”

Race laughed. “A’right. You drive a hard bargain.”

He spat in his hand and held it out across the table. Les wiggled in excitement and spat, grasping the other boy’s hand in his smaller one. They shook.

“Deal.”

* * *

“Here we are,” Race announced as they stepped off the wagon they were hitchhiking on. “The Sheepshead Bay Race Track.”

“Whoa.”

Race looked down at the little boy beside him. Les was unconsciously gripping the seam of Race’s trousers, looking around at the bustling, shouting people with wide eyes. Race simpered at him.

“You scared?”

“No.” Les released his hold on the older newsboy and readjusting his lopsided cap with a confident air. “What are we waitin’ for? Let’s go?”

“Atta boy.”

The two boys waded into the noise. No one bothered to stop them; they were too caught up in the excitement. In all fairness, Race could see why the kid would be a little nervous his first time at the track. First of all, it was in Brooklyn. Brooklyn was a little intimidating no matter what part of it you visited. On top of that, there was always a vast collection of somewhat… _fascinating_ people at the races: rich ladies and gentlemen there to have a good time, poor and homeless folks trying to forget their problems for a while, drunken gamblers and sober gamblers making bets of various levels of insanity, stablehands and riders, and the children of said types of people running about and playing tag. The din was so loud and scrambled that it sounded like a long, continuous wave of yelling and slurs, somewhat akin to a roll of thunder, but with the occasional swear word. It smelled strongly of sweat, beer, tobacco, popcorn, grass, and horse dung. If you were short (and Race and Les were), you could forget about seeing where you were going. Fortunately, Race knew this track like the back of his hand. He led the way through the crowd of people, glancing back every once and a while to see if Les was still behind him. The smaller newsie was holding tightly to his sword and trying as hard as he could not to get swallowed up by the crowd. By the time they reached their destination, Les had once again taken hold of Race, digging his dirty fingers into his canvas paper bag.

“A’right. Dis is de stables,” Race explained, ducking behind a tall stack of hay bales near the large wooden double doors of the stables and gesturing for Les to follow. He had to raise his voice to be heard. “Technically, we ain’t ‘sposed to go in here, but…”

“ _What?_ ”

Race glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention, then darted to the doorway, peeking inside. The coast was clear; he ran in through the open half, Les scurrying after him with terrified exhilaration.

If outside had smelled like horses, then the stables smells like a hundred horses and all their poop puréed into a smelly margarita and baked for twelve hours in the sun. Les made a face.

“Nasty,” he said plainly.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly a flower shop,” Race said, giving the area a last look around. He turned to Les, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“So, you see dem stalls?”

Les nodded.

“Only de ones with name-tags on de front has got horses in ‘em. And only some of dem will ride t’day. If I rememba correctly — and I do — de only t’ree dat really stand a chance is Li’l Lord Faun-ta-loy, White Gypsy, and Sir Prance-A-Lot. And dey are…” He poked around the stables till he spotted them. “…ova d’ere… d’ere… and right here.”

Les nodded again.

“So… which one you wanna bet on?”

Les looked at Race with surprise.

“Bet? Like, put money on?”

“Well, yeah, dat’s kinda how bettin’ works.”

“Ain’t that illegal?”

“Uh, not yet. Now c’mon, pick a horse! We ain’t got all day.”

“Gimme a sec,” Les ordered. Race shut his mouth and watched bemusedly as Les bounced from stall to stall, examining the equines with childish determination. However, the clock was ticking, there were papers to be sold, and a stablehand could walk in any second. They didn’t exactly have time for him to have a ten-minute heart-to-heart with all three horses.

“Pick up de pace, maybe?” Race suggested.

“Shh.”

Race rolled his eyes. Les muttered something to the last horse, then reached through the bars and patted its nose. He turned back to his teenage counterpart, jabbing a thumb confidently at the horse he had just finished interviewing. “This one.”

“Faunt-a-loy?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, a’right den.”

“Hey!” A shout echoed through the stables. Race whipped around to see a stable hand, armed with a shovel and wheelbarrow filled with horse dung. “What are you doin’ in here!”

“Run,” Race said, and bolted, Les hot on his heels. They ran faster than any of the racehorses, speeding out of the stables and shoving through the crowd until the angry, poo-laden stablehand was far, far behind them.

“See, dat’s why- I said to hurry up,” Race panted. “I once got my- head stuffed- into a barrow- of dat crap- for going in there. Not fun.”

“Gross,” Les wheezed. His face was glowing red with excitement and exhaustion.

“Yeah,” Race agreed. “Gross. Now come on, let’s place dat bet. We got papes to sell.”

They agreed to bet a quarter on Little Lord “Faunt-a-loy” Fauntleroy. Then they divided up Race’s remaining papers.

“You gonna be okay out d’ere by yaself?” Race asked.

Les scoffed. “‘Course.”

“Ya shore?”

“Shore, I’m shore. I’ll bet I can sell more papers than you,” Les challenged bravely.

“Dat a fact?”

“A fact.”

“Well, den, Mistah Shore-I’m-shore, why don’t we see?” Race suggested. “Meet me back here in two hours. Whoeva’s got da most dough and da least papes wins.”

“Wins what?”

“Just wins. I ain’t made of money, shortie.”

Les shrugged. They spat in their palms, shook, and parted ways.

* * *

Two hours later, they returned to their post outside the betting booth.

“A’right, how’d we—“ Race noticed Les had half a stick of brown sugar candy sticking out of his mouth. “—do?”

“I did okay,” Les reported through his candy. “Sold all but three, and I got a nickel for two of ‘em. This one guy gave me candy— oh!” He fished a second sugar stick out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it to the other boy. “This is yours. And some other lady gave me a whole pretzel.” He dug into his other pocket and pulled a squished, doughy knot. “You want some?”

“Uh, sure.” Race took the candy stick and the half-pretzel, confounded. “Wow.”

“Yeah. So how’d you do?”

Race waffled. “Not as well as you. I still got twelve to go, and someone tried to steal my cigah.”

Les snickered. “I win!”

“I guess so.” Race took a bite out of his squashed pretzel-half. “Dat’s dang good.”

“Ain’t it?” Les said, stuffing his own half into his mouth.

“Mm.” Les was turning out to be a newspaper-selling legend. Go figure.

Race pulled out his old pocket-watch. “We got an hour till de race sta’ts. We oughta finish sellin’ now.”

Les nodded in agreement, swallowing his pretzel. “Here, gimme some of your papes. We’ll sell ‘em faster that way.”

“Well, ain’t you just a regula business man?” Race teased, handing him six papers and tweaking his cap. “I oughta take you sellin’ more often.”

The younger newsie grinned and bagged the papers.

“See ya in an hour!” he said cheerfully, then disappeared into the crowd.

Race finished his pretzel and stuck his brown sugar stick between his teeth, shaking his head in only half-mock reverence as he turned to sell his last four papers.

Fortunately, Race did manage to sell his four in their last hour, and pinched a new cigar off someone, too. He met back up with Les, who had of course made five extra cents and another two pity-candies, which he gracefully shared with his partner.

After pooling all their earnings into Race’s money pouch, they squeezed through the crowds to the edge of the track, crouching under the wooden railing about twenty-five yards behind the starting line. No one bothered to tell them to move; they were both too small to take up much room, and everyone else was too focused on literally anything and everything else. Les scooted further out to get a better view, but Race pulled him back.

“Are you nuts?” he chastised. “D’ose horses would run you into de ground. Literally”

A man’s voiced echoed over the crowd. “The race will begin in five minutes. Riders, please get your horses in position.”

Race pointed at the horses as they were led to their spots. “D’ere’s ours.”

“I hope he wins,” Les said, nibbling on a piece of licorice.

“We placed a whole quarter on him, so yeah, me too.”

They fidgeted, chewing on their candy and trying to keep their legs from falling asleep. Finally:

“Racers, on your mark!”

The roar of the crowd subsided to a buzz.

“Get set!”

Les could hear the tension in the air. Race stopped chewing his licorice and locked his eyes on their horse.

_BANG!_

The horses bolted, their riders crouching low in the saddles to keep their balance as they thundered down the track. Both boys stood up, almost cracking their heads on the railing as they cheered.

“Go, Faunt-a-loy!” they shouted, pumping their fists.

The horses rounded the first turn; the second; the third. Little Lord Fauntleroy was doing well, but he wasn’t winning. He trailed close behind White Gypsy, but it was clear he wasn’t going to pass her. The boys yelled for him to go faster anyway. It wouldn’t hurt.

The final turn came up. White Gypsy screamed through it, Fauntleroy close behind. Suddenly, she slipped and crashed to the ground, throwing her rider to the track and trapping his leg underneath her. Scattered gasps rose from the onlookers. Fauntleroy vaulted over Gypsy, sprinkling her with dirt. His hooves reconnected with the grass and he sprinted away. Meanwhile, Gypsy panicked, getting to her feet and skittering sideways, eyes wide with terror. Her rider was dragged behind her, his right foot tangled in the stirrup. This scared her further, till she gave a abrupt hop-twist and jerked free, tossing her head and hightailing it in the opposite direction of the finish line. Her rider was left behind on the muddy grass, and did not move as the rest of the horses galloped by.

Race had stopped cheering by now. It wasn’t that he wasn’t having a blast; it was that he was currently in charge of David “I carry a small version of the New Testament in my pocket” Jacobs’s little brother, and he highly doubted that David would appreciate Les being traumatized at a horse race that he bet money on. However, Les was still cheering next to him, apparently not noticing the unconscious rider on the grassy track. Race decided he didn’t need to notice, and continued cheering for Fauntleroy — who was now winning by a good fifty yards — as if nothing had happened.

Fauntleroy crossed the finish line for first place, sweating foam and panting hard. The crowd roared at Fauntleroy cantered in a circle, his rider raising his fist in a sort of victorious salute. The rest of the horses came speeding in, and eventually, the screaming crowd quieted to it’s usual dull roar, and the horses were led off the track, including White Gypsy, whom they had finally managed to calm down and rein in.

“We won, Race!” Les shouted above the people. “We won!”

“Yeah,” Race yelled back distractedly, putting a restraining hand on the younger boy’s shoulder and glancing over his head at the track. He was trying to see if Gypsy’s rider was in one piece. Les continued to chatter about the excitement of the race; Race nodded, still trying to locate the fallen rider. Ah, there he was. They were lifting him onto a stretcher. His face was bloody and covered in dirt and grass, and he was still very unconscious. Or maybe dead.

“Race, what’re you lookin’ at?” Les asked, having noticed Race wasn’t listening. He tried to crane his head around, but Race pushed his cap down over his eyes and gave him a noogie.

“Nothin’, you squeaker,” he dodged, holding Les hostage as he continued to stare after the injured rider. That’d be a good headline tomorrow. He might not even have to exaggerate it.

Les squirmed under Race’s arm. “Yes, you are! What is it?!”

“Nothin’.”

“Liar!” Les accused. He gave a final wiggle and broke free, whipping around just in time to see them carry the stretcher and rider into the medical tent. “What the h-”

“Let’s go get our dough,” Race suggested loudly as he grabbed Les’s arm, dragging him off as he demanded to know what that was.

“Who was that? What happened?! Why–“

“You’ll find out tomorrow,” Race cut him off. “Now shut up!”

Ignoring Les’s protests, Race pulled him along to the betting booth to gather their winnings. Upon remembering the pair had a quarter’s worth of extra pocket change between them, Les forgot all about the stretcher. They collected the money in dimes and pennies, so they could split it in half.

“How we gonna split that last penny?” Les asked, holding his twelve cents.

“I was just thinkin’ about dat,” Race said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he gazed at the troublesome change.

“Can’t cut it in half…” Les murmured.

“Well, yeah, duh,” the older boy said sarcastically. He looked up at Les and gave him a sly grin. “Looky here. You tryin’ to avoid math and now look.”

Les scowled sheepishly in reply.

“Betchu wishin’ you knew dat math now, huh?”

“Oh, hush up, Racetrack,” Les snapped. “It’s not like _you_ know the math.”

Race agreed. He didn’t know the math. He quit school around the same age Les was. He didn’t know how to split pennies. Did they make half pennies?

“We gotta do somethin’ with it,” he insisted.

“What do you think we should do?”

“I dunno. Whenever you got a funny numba sellin’ papes before, what’d ya do with it?”

“We always put the bigger bit in the most important places. Food n’ stuff.”

“A’right. So we gotta put de penny in de most important place.”

“You oughta take it,” Les decided. “You probably need it more’n me.”

“I’m gonna be completely honest witcha: I probably do.” He paused, turning the copper coin between his fingers “But, you’re de one dat picked de horse, not to mention all d’ose extry nickels and candy you got us, so I guess you’d be most important in dis pa’ticula case. You can take it.”

Les gave Race an hesitent yet grateful look. “You shore?”

Race stuffed the penny into Les’s hand and ruffled his cap. “Shore, I’m shore.”

The boys left the track upon seeing the time — they had a long trek back to Manhattan, and Davey was probably losing his mind. They split up their newspaper earnings (80/20, as planned), then treated themselves to ice cream with their winnings. Race got chocolate, and Les got a funny rainbow flavor called “tuiti-fruiti”. They ate it as they walked, reliving the day’s events and telling each other about all the weird people that had sold papers to. After a while, they caught a ride on a wagon that was heading to a Manhattan shoe factory. Les, lulled by the constant rattling of the wooden wheels against the cobblestone, succumbed to sleep, and dozed off against Race’s shoulder. Race clicked his tongue in mock disappointment.

“ _Tsk_ , _tsk_. Leavin’ me to keep watch.” He looked down at the sleeping newsboy, whose bruised face was colored with trace remains of “tuiti-fruiti”. He snorted softly. “Oughta’ve kept de penny.”

As the sun was beginning to disappear under the ocean, Race jostled Les awake.

“C’mon. Dis is our stop, shortie.”

Les groggily scrambled off the wagon after the other boy, hopping to the ground and almost falling over. He blinked hard (which made his face hurt), trying to clear the sleep from his eyes; but he was so _tired._

“I’d say we got bouta half-hours walk left,” Race announced, surveying their position. “We gotta get you home, kid.”

“Y-yeah,” Les agreed, trying not to yawn. “It’s late.”

“Mhm.” Race saw the latter attempting to stifle his yawns, but to not avail. He rolled his eyes. “You’re gonna pass out ‘fore we even get d’ere.”

“No- no, I” — an ear-splitting yawn — “won’t.”

“Yeah, shore. Whateva ya say,” Race said dryly. “You need a back ride?”

Les frowned. “No. I’m not a little kid.”

Then he stumbled off the curb and tripped into the road.

“Ow.”

Race helped him up, raising an eyebrow as Les brushed himself off.

“Still don’t need a ride?” he chortled.

Les glared at him. “Okay, fine. So I need a —“ he broke into another yawn.

Race walked over to an empty shoe shining stand. “Think you can climb up d’ere and hop on my back?”

“Maybe,” Les drawled. He hobbled over and successfully managed to pull himself up onto the box. He wrapped his arms around Race’s neck and hopped on, like a groggy tree frog hopping onto a leaf.

Race bounced him up, wrapping his arms under his legs to hold the smaller boy on. “Don’t choke me, please,” he threatened. “I _will_ drop you, if you do.”

Les snorted a short laugh through his exhaustion. “You’re my Race-horse.”

Race almost threw him over his shoulder for that.

“Geddit? My _Race_ -horse?”

“Les, go to sleep.”

“Jus’ a sec’nd…” Les mumbled wearily. He had one more thing to say before he dropped off. “Thanks fer lettin’ me sell papes with you, Race.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Race said. “You needed it.”

Les gave Race a squeeze, resulting in the older boy practically doubling over in a fit of choking and coughing.

“Are you tryina kill me?” he exaggerated dramatically. “Actin’ like a boa-snake.”

“What’s a boa snake?”

“Never mind.” Race jostled Les a little to make sure he had his attention. “Hey, be sure not to tell Dave ‘bout dis lil’ escapade, will ya? Pretty shore he’d have my head if he found out I took you bettin’ ‘steada takin’ you home.”

”Mhm.”

“Ya know, lemme do de talkin’.”

“Mm…”

“You’d get us both smacked.”

No answer. He’d nodded off.

“Les?” Race jostled him again. “Les?”

“Wh- yeah- course. I won’t say a thing.” Les yawned, his head slumping forward against the older boy’s shoulder. “N-not a thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! Leave a thought if you can! ✨💕


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